


Surikizu

by anony_mouse



Series: file://garbage_overwatch/ [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Grief, Guilt, Hanzo's terrible terrible coping methods, How Do I Tag, Issues (tm), Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Squick, Survivor Guilt, does it count as survivor guilt if you were the one who killed them?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-01 11:35:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14519667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anony_mouse/pseuds/anony_mouse
Summary: Surikizu 擦り傷: scrape, abrasion, marring caused by rubbing(Note tags please.)





	Surikizu

**Author's Note:**

> See notes at the end for spoilers and possible triggers.

It's like oil on his hands. A slick, insoluble oil that coats his arms no matter how hard he scrubs.

And he does scrub. Trying to rid himself of the accusatory heat of his brother's blood on his hands. The blood that dyes his skin, gumming under his fingernails, staining the dragons red. He uses every ounce of soap he can find scrubbing, and when that fails, he turns to more... _abrasive_ methods.

Rags scrape at his skin, but ultimately do nothing. Scraping with stones works for a short while, but not long enough. He's found that steel wool works best, but unfortunately, it leaves him unable to properly grip his bow to defend himself from assassins.

He leaves that only for the worst of nights, when the hot-slick-cloying sensation begins to slosh up his arms, above his elbows, creeping towards his neck with each panicked breath.

The nights where the sensation of drowning overwhelms his other senses, driving him to madness.

Where his breath comes in aborted gasps, despite the lack of obstruction in his lungs.

The nights that he lies curled in a ball, coughing wetly, struggling to breath through a thick smog of over-sweet copper that chokes down his esophagus. Those are the nights the bowman reaches into his kit and withdraws the fibrous steel from within, its presence a puzzle to any outsider to search his belongings (not that he lets anyone touch his belongings).

Starting at his neck, still fighting to draw breath, he scrapes the coarse pad until he can feel the oily smear scrape away.

The moment he moves away from his jugular, he abandons any pretense of delicacy, scouring the bundle as roughly and quickly down his chest, his arms, his fingers as possible.

If he's lucky, the sting of raw wounds and scratch of metal fingers chases away the coat of unseen blood for enough time that he may sleep without fear of drowning.

...

He recalls swimming as a child, as though he were part fish, enjoying the sluicing sensation of cold water as he cut through it cleanly as any blade. He recalls playing that he could live under the water, breathing only occasionally, as whales did, or perhaps not breathing air at all, like the gilled beasts of the depths, ruling his underwater kingdom with a firm, but fair hand.

The sense-memory brings bile to his throat now.

Standing in water deeper than his ankles makes the world spin, and showers...

When he cannot simply use soapy rags, he showers in water that is nearly ice, as quickly as possible.

...

He does not hate the dragons. Who hates the blade for actions of its master? 

He tries to avoid the tattoo out of some sort of twisted respect for them when he thinks of it, but most days, he simply cannot care.

...

In the echoes of silence, he hears Genji's scream. A blood-curdling, primal thing. There is no pride in death, no dignity, as they were once taught (they both had known the truth for years, but the power of denial was strong). 

There is fear and pain. Betrayal.

…

The night he meets the cyborg wearing his brother's face and wielding his brother's dragon, he flees the castle as fast as his legs will carry, pushing himself faster and faster until his lungs pinch, each gasp costing more than he can give.

...

There's not enough air. There's not enough air because his lungs are full of blood.

He crashes into the building he is currently residing in like a drunkard, stumbling blindly up the stairs and into his room, all the while fighting his body for every precious breath. Reaching blindly for his bags, he digs out the pouch he thought (hoped) he was done with.

Fingers make contact with steel just as the blood reaches his ears.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: (spoilers) some pretty brutal (if fairly non-graphic) self harm on Hanzo's part.
> 
> please feel free to contact me if you want to pick this up either in the comments or [here](https://anony-mouse-writer.tumblr.com)


End file.
